Phases of the Moon
by AbaddonNox
Summary: An ongoing series of oneshots exploring the life and mind of the Captain, scenarios for how he ended up with Millennium, etc. 2: Every beast needs a master. But you can't forcibly bind a monster, or a god... another theory on how the Major got his wolf.
1. Chapter 1: New Moon

Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Hellsing, that honor belongs to the great Kohta Hirano. Furthermore, the beliefs, events, etc. depicted in this work do not in any way represent the opinions, actions, etc. of the writer. Reader discretion is thusly advised.  
Spoilers: All of "The Dawn" (six chapters currently) and probably through volume 4 of the main Hellsing manga. Though to be safe I would suggest having read everything up to and including episode 85.  
Beta(s): Scape Goat & Thalaster  
Warnings: Violence, nudity, crude language, and references to forcible sexual advances.  
A/N: This a mangaverse story that takes place at an unspecified time before "The Dawn", probably in the mid 1930s. I have attempted to ground this piece in historical fact, but have taken certain Hirano-inspired liberties.

* * *

**New Moon**

He greeted the orderlies who burst into his room with a cold glare. They intentionally evaded it, relying on firm handling and the occasional peripheral glance to steer their charge out into the corridor. These human bookends were familiar, but there was a tenseness to their stance and step that piqued his interest. He sniffed the air reflexively. There was nothing unusual about the stench of urine and feces, but that couldn't really be said for the sharp tang of fresh blood wafting from the general direction they were heading. He stopped short at the intersection of two corridors, curiosity driving him to subtly assess the odors mingling at this nexus.

"Come on, Hans," one of the men said gruffly. That wasn't his real name. Being an anonymous mute, the asylum staff had taken it upon themselves to unimaginatively dub him that horribly common given name. Whether he actually acknowledged this appellation was debatable, but not a matter any of his supposed caretakers gave much thought to.

One of the orderlies gripped a shoulder and nudged him forward. Hans lingered momentarily, solid against the insistent prod, but finally acquiesced. The staff generally considered him one of their less troublesome patients – not really violent or unpredictable, merely stolid. Whenever something needed to be inflicted upon him, however unpleasant, he remained a malleable automaton. Yet his bluish eyes, which in some light even looked violet, were always sharp with quiet indignation. Occasionally a doctor would grow concerned over Hans' gauntness, or worry his lack of movement was causing bedsores. Force-feedings and examinations commenced, which he weathered with his usual impassiveness. He never got thinner, or developed even a rash, but that never halted the continuous wax and wane of such intrusions.

If you asked the staff they would say he had catatonic schizophrenia, but that just happened to be the newest in a long line of diagnoses. At least one of the doctors enjoyed studying him as the truest example of anecdotal lunacy he had every seen. Though Hans hadn't fallen prey to an episode of "lunar-induced hysteria" for quite some time. Despite this apparent remission, a few nurses still joked that he was the resident werewolf, never realizing how close to the truth they really were.

There are two constants in a lycanthrope's life, and they tend to go hand in hand – change and pain. Death was a common prerequisite for becoming a monster, and for good reason. Living flesh does not take kindly to tidal pressure, or being tugged between the poles of a divided soul. Few individuals are able to cope with a dynamic palette of torment, and stay sane enough to eke out something that resembles an existence. Hans was one of these, if you could term them "fortunate", few. Yet his current incarceration testified to the presence of an ever-changing learning curve. Relieved of his senses during a particularly torturous full moon, Hans had wandered into a village and been taken for a madman. Surrendering to preternatural currents of any kind was dangerous, but wholeheartedly bucking them was just as foolish. These rapids needed to be navigated using a mixture of sagacity, strength, and composure. With a collected captain at the helm, anything was possible.

Hans was led into one of the larger examination rooms, and soaked in every detail of his surroundings as quickly as others might have noticed that the space had been converted into an impromptu operating suite. The werewolf didn't react when his clothes were pulled off, or he was unceremoniously herded onto the soiled operating table. But icy eyes did lock onto the nearest figure, a physician cloaked in a bloody surgical gown.

The doctor gulped. "Umm?"

One of the retreating orderlies glanced back. "Don't worry about him. He's just a watcher. You could probably cut off his dick too."

"It's a vasectomy, not castration," grumbled a second physician who was pushing Hans' feet into stirrups. Fingers slick with someone else's lukewarm gore roughly handled sensitive anatomy, and punctuated the offense with a delicate slice of pain. The operating doctor would complain later that exhaustion, caused by too many consecutive procedures, allowed him to mistake stupor for anesthetization. However, there was nothing frantic about how Hans slipped out of reach and twisted off the table.

The clandestine lycanthrope would shift through any physical damage, so that was hardly a flashpoint. Everyone has their limits, even a captive wolf. He was not about to let himself be neutered like a common pet.

Hans leapt to the far corner of the room where, high up on the wall now flanking his right, there was a window adequate for escape. He had no intention of doing so though, at least not yet. As personnel approached, Hans stared them down aggressively, and growled a throaty warning. He stifled the wolfish urge to bare his teeth and snarl, in the hopes of appearing more lucid to human eyes. He needn't have bothered.

Orderlies stalked over in a coordinated effort to hem him into the niche. Yet to a real predator, it was nothing but a clumsy insult. Is that what they saw? Easy prey that only needed to be recaptured? Hans had never considered himself a captive. There was nothing in those brick and mortar walls that could physically stop him from leaving. The accommodations were far from optimal, but every living arrangement possessed its hardships. Those who espoused the nobility of "mother" nature had obviously never been forced to eat carrion.

Hans could see the foolishness of that prideful notion now. He was indeed trapped, and that humiliating realization blossomed easily into rage. Even if Hans took the pragmatic path of least resistance and fled, where would he go? The Bavarian wolves were all but gone. And even if they still flourished, he had leaned on that part of himself for far too long. Relying heavily on wolfish instinct caused human recall to atrophy, and his brittle memory was already deteriorating into something mothy. His eyes never lost their wild look anymore, and speech often felt just out of reach.

Wolves were suspicious and wary of lycanthropes, but if approached properly, generally proved themselves to be far more welcoming than man. Hans had watched his few scattered kin turn completely feral as the modern age matured, that or simply disappear. He tended to respect his canine brethren more as well, yet Hans knew he wasn't a wolf. And in his experience, nothing good ever came from trying to be something you weren't. He had accepted this asylum, the sad corner of existence that it was, as the place human society sequestered those like him – persons who possessed multiple natures and felt the moon's tidal tug on their own intimate sanguine seas. Hans tolerated much when it came to respecting a world he saw himself as a guest in, but these humans had reached the limits of his magnanimity.

Canine ire flushed through his body. With the unfavorable moon and preternatural eddies, transforming would be a frivolous, as well as agonizing, waste of strength. So he ceded authority to his lupine half, but didn't force the matter. Regardless, his first howl in years resonated through the building, fueled by the visceral joy of release. The call even invaded administrative offices where an SS officer, supposedly sent to oversee the legislated sterilizations, was being entertained. If anyone happened to be unaware of the bedlam afoot, they knew now.

It didn't take Hans long to put three aggressors, two orderlies and a doctor, painfully in their places. A third adversary ended up with his back to the floor, pinned at the neck, kicking and clawing at the werewolf's taught arm. He might as well have been trying to dig fingers into stone. Hans watched his opponent struggle with a flinty glare to match. The smell of fear and fresh blood was quickly changing the man's classification from impudent whelp to food. The lycanthrope wasn't particularly fond of human flesh, but in this case he would savor it all the same.

Movement at the doorway caught his attention, and Hans turned to meet the firm gaze of a short man leveling a sidearm solidly in his direction. All the werewolf really saw was a challenger who wanted to steal rank and meal. Hans curled back his lips and snarled. The response came immediately, and in the form of a stance-breaking bullet to the shoulder. Three subsequent shots slammed neatly into Hans' chest. A few new cords of pain resonated through his body, but this was drowned out by the even tempo of approaching footfalls.

"Gentlemen," a male voice called out. "My meal was interrupted by this?" A swift kick sent Hans onto his back. "And you call yourselves German."

A boot twisted into the werewolf's throat, toe digging under his chin. Even with blood-filled lungs, Hans continued to breath steadily, misting polished leather with a fine sheen of gore. He forcibly delayed healing and harnessed the tunnel vision shock offered to look calmly past the gun pointed at his head, into the eyes of its wielder. The orbs were a dirty hazel, and shielded by glasses, but there was no mistaking the predator stalking behind them. People had looked at Hans like that within these walls, and lived to regret acting on it. He would never be someone's bitch, or lap dog. However, this man's hungry gaze focused on something far more intimate, and almost appeared riveted beyond to what could be gained through its means.

"He is nothing more than an animal," the man continued, words slipping out of his mouth like greasy silk. "Therefore, we should act in the best interest of the Fatherland."

The werewolf watched thin lips curl into a smirk before a finger did the same, releasing the headshot. The lycanthrope hadn't anticipated this path of events, but he also wasn't above exploiting it. The spirited human deserved his victory, and Hans felt it was a better ending than what this sorry chapter of his life deserved.

* * *

Hans' eyes snapped open to darkness. His lips parted slightly with a tense sigh as he slid into a lethargic stretch. An uncomfortable muscular restlessness, which was drowned out by a pounding pain that started between the eyes and reverberated through his entire skeleton, told him it was the slightest of crescent moons even before he extricated himself out from under a dingy tarp to study the night sky. The intoxicating aroma of the surrounding forest tugged at his lupine self, but Hans didn't give in. He had just woken up to find himself in the uncovered bed of a vehicle, and that necessitated investigation. 

He twisted onto all fours and leapt lightly onto the cab of the truck. Hans glanced down to see the plucky human who shot him lounging between the glowing headlights, munching on a stale bretzel. His greasy odor, dusted with a wispy hint of old bread, had the sharpness of cheese too fresh for consumption. But hidden deep within the sweaty folds of fragrance was a promise of it aging deliciously.

"Don't slink about in the shadows, it's unbecoming," the man said between bites, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder.

Hans jumped past the headlight glare and circled back, a clumsy human stoop morphed into something elegantly wolfish. He locked his sharp eyes on the chubby little man, but kept a respectful distance and crouched to even their heights. Once again, the human met this hard stare with strength that was not really a direct challenge, more of a burning statement.

"So ..." The SS lieutenant popped the last bit of bread into his mouth, pausing to relish it before continuing. "What are you going to do now?" The words were said with lazy confidence, while bright eyes purposefully betrayed so much more.

The werewolf did feel some wary human gratitude towards this man who had effectively freed him, and the manner in which it was achieved certainly demanded wolfish respect. However, the offer being extended in the wordless language of all things wild and primal happened to be a tantalizing proposition Hans couldn't brush aside offhand – to have a place and a purpose, not just for the man or the wolf, but both. That, more than any creed or desire, was worthy of steadfast fealty. Whatever this plump human alpha had planned, Hans would be his beta, his enforcer, and would make it happen – or die trying.

He started to slip into a classic lupine display of submission, but stopped himself. It was proper etiquette to acknowledge rank in the dominant party's vernacular. The lycanthrope didn't search his brain long before coming up with a gesture he deemed appropriate for honoring a uniform-clad human.

Hans stood, straightening to a smartly erect spine, and saluted.

The lieutenant merely smiled.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for getting this far in my piece. I would also like to take this moment to thank both of my betas for their hard work, and putting up with me ;) If you have a second please leave a review. As my summary indicates, I have enough ideas to make a series out of this, but want to see if there is reader interest before I commit myself. Any and all feedback is greatly appreciated :) 


	2. Chapter 2:  Gibbous Moon

Disclaimer: I do not own any aspect of Hellsing, that honor belongs to the great Kohta Hirano. Furthermore, the beliefs, events, etc. depicted in this work do not in any way represent the opinions, actions, etc. of the writer. Reader discretion is thusly advised.  
Spoilers: All of "The Dawn" (six chapters currently) and probably everything up to and including episode 85 of Hellsing proper.  
Beta(s): Scape Goat & Thalaster  
Warnings: Violence, nudity, and perhaps a ship or two if you are really looking for one.  
A/N: This a mangaverse story that takes place at an unspecified time in late 1941, or 1942.

* * *

**Gibbous Moon**

The Major grimaced, icy air racking his lungs. He hissed through an exhale and squinted. It was amazing how the packed snow seemed to focus light directly into his eyes, regardless of where he stood or gazed. The ancient Scandinavians had been right. If hell existed, it certainly was a bleak and bitterly frozen netherworld. Which left the Major wondering what had possessed that noble Germanic race to colonize this horrid wasteland in the first place – perhaps the same flaw which caused them to stay behind in Northern Europe all those years ago, rather than migrating into the Prussian cradle with their brethren.

Tugging his cap and coat a little snugger, the Major pulled himself away from the tent entrance. He walked briskly to the excavation site and disappeared into the shored up crag. The sight of a stocky military officer bounding lightly down crude ice stairs like a plump elf should have elicited at least a few chuckles. But laughing at, or even sometimes around, a member of the Schutzstaffel was a good way to get yourself arrested – or worse. The few men milling about slipped out of his way silently, or with mumbled apologies.

"Herr Doctor!" the Major announced loudly, voice echoing playfully within the glacial cavern as his vision adjusted. Fissures and imperfections within the walls of marbled ice funneled and fractured sunlight from above, bathing everything in a crystalline glow. It was a magnificent sight that went largely unappreciated by this particular visitor. His abused eyes welcomed the respite, but for the rest of him this natural wonder was a boundary. What he coveted needed to be plucked from its frosty grasp.

"Herr Major," responded a hunched figure nestled among some crates. "I took the liberty of excusing the men." His attention surfaced briefly from the depths of a logbook. "I hope you don't mind."

The Major smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Not at all," he said with a casual flick of the hand before adding, "initiative is rarely a punishable offense."

"I sent everyone topside on the pretense of clearing their lungs, blaming the _hallucination _on exhaustion and poor air quality." The dark-haired physician tossed the notebook aside and crossed his arms. "But it's waking. There is no mistaking that. We can't perpetuate this ruse for much longer."

Amber irises narrowed. When these incidents started, it had seemed prudent to take the doctor into his confidence. The physician's imaginary geological vent was a novel cover story, perhaps even brilliant. Ravaged ice and strange Viking remains were all plausibly brushed away with thoughts of explosions and ancient pilgrimages to seemingly god-touched sites. This fiction also effectively dismissed any phenomenon one wouldn't expect from an artifact or a corpse on fume-induced delusions, and beautifully necessitated a continuous medical presence during operations. However, that is where the man's usefulness began and ended.

With shared secrets had come arrogance and over-educated pomposity. To make matters worse, the Major's captain for this venture was obedient to the point of spinelessness, and thus did nothing to shield his superior from these annoyances. Well, live and learn. Regardless of poor personnel choices, the chubby SS officer had no intention of marring his first mission after a promotion with failure.

The physician was babbling about vital statistics and exponential increases, but the Major coolly focused his attention beyond the prattle. From the depths of partial excavation, something monstrous was emerging. A looming presence obscured by time-packed debris, spindly tentacles breached crystalline walls, scarring them with fault lines and brittle veins of flash-frozen opaqueness. These furry tendrils spoked out from what could only really be described as a mummy. Some likening the artifact they were unearthing to a giant spider web, with a cocooned meal left at its crux. But to the Major, and a few other select individuals in the know, this odd sarcophagus of tightly wound hair was seen for what it actually was – a chrysalis, not a tomb.

"Hmmm, the ..." The Major waved a hand absently. "... _tethers_ go deeper than we expected. They consist solely of fur though, yes?" He pulled his focus back, but aimed it at no one in particular.

"Keratin through and through, as far as I can tell," the taller man responded. "But ..."

That was all the Major wanted to know. "Captain?"

A disembodied "jawohl" sounded off at his heels. Ever a mousy ghost, always haunting the peripheral, the bespectacled captain would have made a wonderful butler.

"We will recoup lost time by cutting those tethers, rather than trying to remove them," the Major ordered. "Choose two men to stay topside. I want everyone else aiding in the extraction, once the good doctor says it is safe to proceed."

A shuffle scratched the air. "Ihrem Befehl, Herr Major." But the captain's retreating footfalls were drowned out by a presence that his superior sincerely wished was more spectral.

"I must object!" the doctor exclaimed, stepping forward with clenched fists. "You are deceiving the men and placing them at undue risk!"

"Everything will continue as scheduled," the Major replied curtly, before flashing a crooked smile. "I leave the specimen, and the safety of my men, in your capable hands."

"What?" the physician yelled, dark eyes flashing dangerously. "Are you asking me to drug it? Out of the question! I will take no part in this recklessness! I don't even know what _it_ is, how can I possible administer anything?" He pointed at the Major's chest. "You are mad! There is no way I can guarantee its viability or protect anyone, and especially not both!"

"Allow me to speak candidly with you, doctor," the SS officer spoke quietly. He took a step forward, fingers laced behind his back. The doctor stole tentative footsteps in the opposite direction. "I believe in results. If someone proves themselves useful, there are a great many things I will overlook. I have tolerated your insubordination up to this point. Therefore, your cooperation in this matter would be greatly appreciated." Color retreated from the physician's face in the wake of those dirty-yellow irises. One of his mirthless smiles, which promised to be the last thing you saw before your eyes were plucked neatly out of their sockets, slipped onto the Major's lips. "Do we understand each other?"

The pale doctor nodded, or trembled out a bob, it was hard to tell.

"Good." The Major's smile deepened. He turned to leave, waving flippantly. "If you need anything, please bring it to the captain's attention."

If the creature proved to be delicate, it would hardly be useful for their purposes. But the Major decided to keep that information to himself. Fear was not the best motivator, but could be an effective one, and they were running out of time. The clock had started ticking when the western front washed over Denmark, and a vague report of archaeological findings in Greenland eventually surfaced. Labeled fraudulent by local authorities, meticulous Schutzstaffel intelligence found it nonetheless. The age and location of said Norse artifacts were understandably too groundbreaking to be taken seriously. Especially when the only evidence supporting their authenticity was a hearsay tale of purchase from glacial Inuits. Yet it was exactly what some had been looking for. A clandestine operation was launched, greased with German ingenuity and lavish payoffs. But Allied forces were already buzzing around Greenland, and bribes didn't buy silence, they merely rented it. A retrieval unit from an impromptu Vorpostenboote would arrive within the day. Be it a corpse or a live specimen, the Major was going to return to Germany victorious.

He retreated to his tent and took up office, or what passed for such. However, it wasn't long before the solitude was interrupted.

"Yes, Captain?" he responded while flipping through a stack of papers, not desiring to look at the man's thinning hair or crooked glasses.

"Operations have recommenced. The doctor asked me to give you this." A small bundle dropped onto the Major's writing surface. "It was discovered on the body."

"Danke," the Major clucked impatiently. "Abgewiese."

Once alone, he unfurled the knotted rag to reveal an amulet. Fingers gingerly lengthened what remained of the leather thong, and caressed the dark metal pendant, tracing the crudely etched runes. The Major sighed – another disruption. If his supposition proved correct, this attempt at currying favor was about to cost the physician dearly. He stood and slipped the amulet into his pocket before strolling out into the cold. The fates could weave such deliciously cruel, and rightly deserved, irony when they chose.

Cries and commotion greeted him at the crevasse entrance, funneled up from below. The Major paused and turned his head, forcing amber eyes to survey the blinding landscape. Upon closer examination, he concluded it was indeed a fine place to start the beginning of the end. With a genuine smile, the Major casually saluted the sky before picking his way down the rough stairs.

Just shy of the landing, he came upon a body. Headless and crumpled, there was no way it had gotten there on its own accord. The Major recognized what remained of his adjunct, but reached down to pluck a gore-soaked lanyard from the mess of steaming flesh anyway. He discarded the attached Erkennungsmarke pouch, but not before retrieving the dog tag within. The Major gave the engraved information only passing attention before threading the tag directly onto its bloodied cord – perhaps the lackluster captain would prove himself more useful in death.

He barely managed to pull the medallion free of his jacket before what had turned the cavern into a mass grave came for him as well. A tide of liquid fur surged around the bend. But it sliced to either side of the dangling amulet, splitting itself into two bristling forepaws that writhed and looped back in a gust of heat. A giant lupine muzzle coiled into existence, maw gaping inches from the swaying pendent. It roared outage and frustration not at the runed metal, but the man welding it. The Major fought to keep his footing, but still managed to crack a smirk. Only the offspring of a shape-shifting trickster god could rend and reform flesh so easily.

Fenrir snarled, undulating and swirling in his own unique version of caged pacing. He was a breathtaking sight, a tragedy of unchecked power. Every beast needs a master. But you can't forcibly bind a monster, or a god. It is still essentially their choice. The great wolf had likely been bound long before the betrayal, or so the Major guessed. It was a shaky hypothesis he'd just bet his life on. This creature was exhibiting a level of persistence usual in monsters though. Such devotion implied more than the shallow relationship myth depicted with the one called Tyr. However, it wouldn't be the first time legend veiled or twisted the truth.

"Be a slave to your past, your fate, or serve me. "The Major lifted his other hand, bring the dog tag level with the swinging necklace. Had the ancients believed that mere trinket ensnared a god? Probably, but like any token, its power was symbolically imparted, not innate. The hardest shackles to break were also the most intangible – like love, or loyalty. Myth had gotten that right. "Your freedom spells doom for this world. Ragnarok is coming. Together we can blaze a path to that glorious battle. And when the time comes, you will be set free to play your part. I give my word."

The wolf growled. Heat curled like smoke out from between clenched teeth and flared nostrils. Seconds stretched as icy predator eyes studied the human, agitation quelled to little more than a rippling sway. Nothing could shatter the Major's confidence though, even the soul-piercing stare of a god. But their wordless conversation was cut short. The glacier around them groaned, sundering walls and unspoken words. All the Major remembered was a sharp pain slicing into his left temple before fur shimmered, and everything went black.

* * *

It took a roll of thunder rumbling through his skull to nudge the world back into focus. Fluttering eyelids screamed for a shielding hand. The chill and glare told him he was topside again, and firm warmth at his back conveyed how. He calmly reached behind his head, smiling when gloved skin found naked metal. In this climate, the only unshielded dog tag he expected to encounter was the one he'd personally freed from its pouch, and offered up as a modern alternative to the legendary Gleipnir. The Major tilted his head, and was greeted by the sight of a man's strong throat and jutting chin. He followed the gaze, squinting into the horizon. Fingertips were still absently tracing the engraved identity disc when another growl vibrated through his body. 

"Stand down, Captain!" the Major said firmly.

How long had he been unconscious? If the retrieval team was already here, probably hours. The Major stretched, testing for injuries. Besides the scalp wound, which he knew looked worse than it really was, everything seemed minor. That accomplished, damage control could begin. His new companion looked unscathed, but considering the silence, others appeared far less fortunate. Two fallen soldiers were within view, wrenched but unbloodied. The Major was pretty sure he knew who had dispatched them. His new companion definitely needed to be taught some manners. At least the wolf grasped the prudence of clothing, if only a little. The Major brushed his hand against a heavy wool lapel. The greatcoat had obviously been pilfered from one of the guards. It suited him, especially with the upturned collar. But a man wearing nothing but a coat would attract unnecessary attention.

Those were all matters for later though, and nothing a little military discipline couldn't resolve. The Major decided that he would simply make him to button up the coat when the others got closer. Unless orders had changed, the approaching men were strangers, and their knowledge of his mission limited. Any aged bobble could be the sought artifact, and any man his captain. There would be obvious inconsistencies to their story. But with time of the essence and no one left alive to contradict it, SS authority would smooth over any annoyances. This was going to be easy.

The Major feigned semiconsciousness and lounged into the warmth of his most recent accomplishment. The clandestine wolf god didn't seem to mind. He humored his new master's whim, lupine watchfulness unfazed. The Major settled comfortably against the larger man's chest, reveling in the perks of this burgeoning relationship with a furtive smile. The gentle rock of calm breathing tugged at his concussed brain, but he was in no danger of falling comatose. The monster's steady heartbeat was a war drum booming in his ear, marking the relentless march of time towards Ragnarok.

What melody could possibly be sweeter?

* * *

A/N: Thank you for getting this far in my piece. Considering the events of chapter 86, the above may seem AU, but I decided to finish it anyway. I would also like to take a moment to bow reverently in thanks to my two wonderful betas (a special "danke" goes out to Thalaster who graciously helped me with the German). Being that this is the only "multi-chaptered" work I have ever embarked upon, I would like to dedicate this first-ever second installment to them. If you have a minute please leave a review. Feedback of any kind is love :)  



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